Cold Korps
by Possum Man01
Summary: The 414th Regiment of Krieg have been deployed to the world of Durithan VI, thrust into a new ice-age, the guardsmen find themselves ill-equipped and facing conditions they never trained for. Will they be victims of the enemy or the cold?


A bright pillar of fire streaked over the battlefield, momentarily linking the two war-machines, before the larger of the two toppled to the ground, one of its legs sheered off between the hip and the knee.

"Excellent shooting mister Kramer." announced Commissar Yorg, "note another kill."

"Aye sir." replied Kramer as he marked the side of his vision-bloc with a pencil, increasing his count to twelve.

"Mister Durch, I think it's time we had a change of scenery," said Yorg, checking over his map and tapping it lightly, "re-locate to grid reference fourteen-twelve-three, keep up us in cover and moving fast."

"Immediately, Commissar." came the crackling reply over the internal vox.

The Shadowsword grumbled as driver Durch ignited its massive engine, the turbines whining in protest as they spun up to full power. Rubble clanked and rattled from the hull of the super-heavy tank, the throttle of its engines making the ruins around it shudder and crumble. Despite the size of the war-machine it was still surprisingly camouflaged by the snowy ruins it had inhabited only minutes before. Its huge tracks, each as wide as a highway, ground backwards slipping slightly before the weight of the Shadowsword gave them purchase on the frozen earth and the tank began to reverse.

The drop light flicked from red to green, Sergeant 'Hal' Halbourne hauled the side door of the Valkyrie open before throwing out a rappel rope and jumping into the freezing wind. Halbourne landed in a puff of snow, quickly unclipping himself from the rope, bringing up his las-gun and moving into a defensive formation. The rest of his team were already hitting the snow behind him, spreading out quickly just like they'd practiced during the twelve weeks of travel through the warp. The jet-wash from the Valkyrie was kicking up flurries of snow, adding to the snowstorm that was already raging through the tightly packed streets and it was playing merry hell with Halbourne's optics clamped to his helmet.

"Move in, lets get this done." He growled into the vox, his breath gusting out of the re-breather slits in clouds of white, as he rose from a crouch and moved towards the hab-block across the street from his position.

With the Valkyrie gone, only the wind howled and billowed around the strike team as they assembled to breach the main hab entrance; the wide doors creaked in the gale and several of the dark windows shrieked through broken panes.

"Lamp-packs," ordered Halbourne, "Ortin, you and Uri are our rear-guard, keep in contact."

A quick hand gesture signalled two of the team to place breaching charges at key points on the wide doors before they hustled away to a safe distance. There was a dull crump and a flash of orange then only the sound of the fierce wind. Halbourne turned to look at the hab-doors; they were buckled and scorched with a gap of about a foot between them, Halbourne cursed. This was too much of a delay, his men should have been into the hab-block by now, furiously he moved in front of the door and kicked it. One of the doors fell with a crash; the other snapped its upper hinge and simply scraped open leaving a gouge in the tiled floor of the entrance way. Halbourne stepped inside, his las-gun held tight to his shoulder and his lamp light sweeping left and right. Wesk and Pember flanked him, snapping their aims to the closest doors in the hallway. A rat scurried across the stairway ahead of them; three beams of light illuminated the creature just before it disappeared from view.

"Shit!" exclaimed Wesk, switching his aim to the left door again.

"Quiet!" ordered Halbourne, kneeling to examine the dusty floor. There were footprints, smudged by the wind now gusting through the open door, but footprints none the less.

"What do you think, Pember?"

"Look like guard issue prints to me sir, maybe someone already cleared this sector."

Halbourne doubted it, surely command wouldn't have sent them if they already knew what was here.

"Negative, keep your eyes sharp, fix bayonets." there was a slight clatter over the sound of the wind as the squad fixed their knives to the lugs of their rifles.

"Entrance clear, move in, sweep the place room by room, floor by floor." instructed Halbourne into the vox as he rose to his feet and moved towards the stairs.

"Grid reference fourteen-twelve-three, as you ordered sir." announced Durch, bringing the Shadowsword to a halt in the shadow of an old Manufactorum, the gigantic chimneys had fallen like great metal trees across the road-way, caught on the opposite building and now looked like bridges connecting the two mighty structures. Even the super-heavy tank seemed small as it grumbled to itself in the middle of the street, snow falling briskly onto its upper hull and beginning to make it seem like part of the shattered urban landscape. There was a clank and a slight puff of snow, as Commissar Yorg hauled open the observation hatch and lifted himself into a standing position. His re-breather mask and goggles were strapped tightly to his face with his cap fitting snugly atop his head, his neck swaddled in a thick scarf which was tucked into his fully buttoned storm-coat. Yorg scanned the area quickly before reaching back into the cabin and pulling out a pair of battered monoculars, pressing them up to the goggles was useless so the Commissar un-clipped them before hurriedly bringing the rubberised eye-pieces of the monoculars up to his eyes and looking along the street into the distance. Visibility was poor, the flurries of snow and the darkness created by the gigantic smoke clouds from the burning cities across the continent created a veil that was difficult to penetrate with the naked eye. An orange haze defined the horizon, marking part of the front line that they were engaged on. Yorg huffed, clipped his goggles back on, lowered himself back into the observation cabin and slammed the hatch shut.

"Mister Lert," said Yorg, brushing snow off the shoulders of his coat, "How is the battle going?"

"Swiftly, Commissar, our comm. traffic is well ordered and many of the ground units are making excellent progress with the support of the Titans."

"Where are the points of heavy resistance?"

"Grid reference twenty four-nine-one, the Cadian 15th Mechanised is being harried by enemy heavy infantry," a pause, "Also, grid reference twelve-seven-eighteen, a division of Leman Russ of the 21st Troilus Armoured is taking serious losses from a Reaver and Warhound pattern enemy Titans."

Yorg rapped his finger tips on the side of a vision-bloc before replying,

"We need to bolster the assault there, is there suitable cover near the 21st s location?"

"Yes Commissar, according to our maps, but they are at least a day out of date."

Yorg gestured for the map, which Lert swiftly handed him. Blue and red pencilled lines curved across its surface, some parts we faded where the lines had been rubbed out and redrawn several times over the past day along with various arrows and other markings representing Imperial strong points or weaknesses in the enemy line. Reference twelve-seven-eighteen had plenty of cover due to a large Manufactorum complex to the south and a Hab complex to the north, now Yorg understood why the 21st Division was having such a hard time, pinning down a Titan in that environment would be hard enough for a veteran Titan-killer but for men with no experience fighting such warmachines it would be almost impossible.

"Mister Durch, make for grid reference twelve-eight-one at best possible speed, keep us in decent cover throughout the trip."

"Aye Commissar."


End file.
